


Fourteenth

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kind of Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock… what the hell!”<br/>“John...” Sherlock's voice is rough and a bit slurred.<br/>“You are… are you drunk?”<br/>“Nice deduction, John.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourteenth

**Author's Note:**

> This has now evolved into a multi-chapter story, which can be found here:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5729458/chapters/13202155

John hears the front door slam shut but instead of the expected familiar noise of 6ft plus consulting detective dashing up the stairs, there's just … silence. Silence that stretches. Has it been Mrs Hudson, after all? But her Bingo night is Thursday and today is Wednesday, John's sure of that. There are not many things in his life that he's sure of lately but he still can distinguish certain weekdays: Thursday's Bingo, Friday's surgery, on Monday he sees his therapist. Of course, Sherlock is not to be expected to keep track of such common issues.

Speaking of… Now, listening into the void of silence, John can finally hear someone come up the stairs but the steps sound heavy and unsteady. Then the door to their flat swings open and there he is, a dramatic black silhouette against the light from the staircase: Sherlock Holmes, all great coat and dishevelled curls, swaying slightly on their doorstep, positively reeking of booze and stale smoke.

“Sherlock… what the hell!”

“John...” Sherlock's voice is rough and a bit slurred.

“You are… are you drunk?”

“Nice deduction, John.” Sherlock tries to sound light-hearted and mockingly but there is something underneath John can't quite put his finger on that spoils the effort.

His musings are interrupted by Sherlock stumbling into their sitting room and if John had ever thought that it would be fun to see his flatmate off his face - thereby losing his ability to come over elegant even when up to his elbows in stomach content or pig intestines - he's about to discover that the opposite is true: Sherlock is so different from his… well, for a lack of a better word, let’s say… _normal_ self that it's unsettling and quite disturbing.

He even has to grip the back of John's chair to steady himself and John is up on his feet in an instant, offering his help but Sherlock just pushes him away and tries to unwind his scarf, failing miserably.

“Don't! Just leave me… you know… alone!”

“Sherlock, please, you are totally pissed. Let me help you before you throttle yourself.”

“If you take pictures, I'll poison your coffee.”

“Message received.”

Slightly appeased, Sherlock lets John relieve him of his coat. As John tries to untie the scarf, his fingers brush over Sherlock's throat. His skin is not hard and cold like the white marble it resembles but delicately soft, warm and a bit damp from sweat.

John swiftly turns around and hurries to put the clothes onto their designated hook. Even in his inebriated state Sherlock might be able to spot a hard-on if it pokes him in the thigh. 

As John turns again, Sherlock is still leaning against his chair, gazing down onto its empty seat, both hands clinging to the backrest.  
John retreats to the safe kitchen doorway, watching Sherlock from afar with increasing concern.

“Come over here, you need a glass of water.” If Sherlock throws up, the already mostly ruined linoleum will be much easier to clean than their supposedly silk Persian carpet (it came with Sherlock, so it's probably is a real Kilim).

But Sherlock just pants a few times and not even tries to move, only mutters: “God, John, the whole fucking room is spinning...”

Sherlock used the f-word. John's world comes to a halt. He slowly walks over to his flatmate and tentatively puts a hand on his bony shoulder.

“Hey, look at me.” Sherlock has obvious trouble to lift his head and gaze at John; when he eventually succeeds, his eyes are glassy, the irises, which can shine all colours from light grey to deep blue, right now are almost colourless, the pupils the size of pinpricks. “You are not just drunk, are you?” John's world has started turning again but now it skips slightly off-kilter. “What else did you take?” He has trouble concealing the anger in his voice. _'Don't scare him off'_ , a voice whispers in his head and John switches into doctor mode to emotionally detach himself from this lunatic he shares his digs with.

Sherlock shakes his head, remembering too late that this might not be a good idea and has to close his eyes and swallow hard. His knees buckle and threaten to give out and John has no choice, he has to grab the flailing body in front of him and hold him close as he more or less drags him over into the kitchen where he deposits his wasted friend on a chair.

Sherlock's head slumps down on his arms, folded on the kitchen table and he winces as John switches on the lights. They are too bright and evidently hurt Sherlock's eyes, as he groans into the crook of his arms. John doesn't give a toss. He slams a glass of water hard next to Sherlock's head, the liquid sloshing over the rim.

“Where have you been?” This is not a talk anymore, it's an interrogation and, as John has served in Afghanistan, he knows how to go about it.

“Pub.” Sherlock mumbles, carefully lifting his head to take a sip of water, squinting his eyes nearly shut.

“Why? You don't frequent bars.”

“Case.”

“What case?”

“Stalking of Violet Smith.”

John remembers the young woman seeking advice from Sherlock earlier this week. Something about a strange fellow following her to and from the station on her way to work and back. Hadn't sounded that promising. Who'd known that Sherlock Holmes had a weak spot for damsels in distress ...?

“I haven't...”

“Sorry?” John drops out of his presumed role of bad cop. Even after nearly a year, Sherlock's ability to read his mind still astonishes him.

“I haven't been drinking that heavily. I just had… Martini.” As the memory comes back to him Sherlock has to press his fist against his mouth to stop himself from being sick. John silently hands him their big salad bowl but Sherlock only eyes it in disgust before pushing it away. “We eat from that,” he says horrified.

“No, I do. I have never witnessed you eating salad.” John retorts.

“Still...” Sherlock trails of.

“Never took you for an especially squeamish type, with all the body parts in the fridge.”

“That's different. It's for science.”

“Of course.” They are silent for a bit; only Sherlock's heavy breathing fills the room. “So, exactly how many Martinis did you have?”

“Please...” Sherlock whines. “I … I don't know. There was a… man… I think we had a fight.”

John is suddenly alarmed. “Are you hurt?”

Sherlock shrugs indifferently.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Now Doctor Watson is in full swing. He pulls a protesting Sherlock up onto his feed and manhandles him into the bathroom, pushing him down onto the closed toilet seat before removing his Jacket. Then he hastily starts to unbutton Sherlock's tight purple shirt. _'I'm just checking for injuries'_ he recites to himself. _'This has nothing to do with me lusting after my flatmate. I'm a doctor, he's my patient.'_

It's not really helping.

What helps is discovering the dark marks on said flatmates throat, resembling fingerprints. Looking further down, John becomes aware of more bruises blooming on Sherlock's protruding ribs – shining a yellowish-purple on the pale skin, a ghastly contrast to the colour of his shirt. John brushes his hands carefully over the raw areas and Sherlock inhales sharply.

“We need to go to A&E. These are very likely fractured. You need a scan.”

“No hospital.” Sherlock huffs, panic ringing in his voice.

“Sherlock, this can be really dangerous. If they penetrate your lung...”

“Please...” Sherlock begs.

Sherlock never begs.

His eyes are closed. His head lolls from side to side. John feels icy cold fear pooling in his stomach. 

This is not just a bit not good. 

This is bad.

“Sherlock, look at me. What happened?”

But instead of answering, Sherlock can't finally hold his drink – or whatever else he's consumed over the past evening – and starts retching. Luckily, he makes it over to the sink, clinging to it as his body shakes and cramps with wave after wave of nausea. John holds him upright as best he can, catching him around the middle, stroking his hair from his face, murmuring soothingly.

When Sherlock eventually only brings up green-grey bile he sinks to the floor, exhausted. John silently pours him another glass of water. After gulping it down, Sherlock coils in on himself on the cold hard bathroom floor. John slumps down beside him.

“Better?” It's a stupid question but he has to say something to keep the horror creeping in on him at bay.

Sherlock deigns his attempt at conversation with a snort, then coughs and has to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his 200 quid bespoke dress shirt.

John absent-mindedly reaches out to pet Sherlock's hair but stops abruptly as Sherlock flinches, then very slowly retreats his hand and starts to get up.

“I'm way too old for lounging on the floor,” John says but what he really means is _'Dear god, let me wake up from this mess!'_

“Shall I run you a bath?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock just nods. 

He still doesn't move.

John leaves the awkwardly silent bathroom when the tub is adequately filled with enough hot water to wash away at least all bodily remnants of whatever it is that happened. _'He'll be fine'_ , John thinks, bargaining with himself. _'He's always fine.'_ But he stays outside the shut bathroom door, just in case...

**Author's Note:**

> This started out light-hearted but then turned rather angsty and dark towards the end. I don't know why, it just happened... sorry!
> 
> I'm sorry, I forgot to add this story to my Advent series. I've done it now, cause that's where it belongs.  
> Apologies!  
> But, somehow, the order got a bit mixed up. This is part 14 and it's totally unconnected to 13 and 15.


End file.
